


A Warm Turquoise

by Cân Cennau (gwenynnefydd)



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Autistic Odo (Star Trek), Emotional Constipation, Garak gets to be an actual tailor, M/M, Odo is along for the ride, References to Autistic Julian Bashir, Tailoring, Touch-Sensitive Odo (Star Trek), Touch-Starved, touch-repulsed, touch-sensitive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-12-24 06:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21094763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenynnefydd/pseuds/C%C3%A2n%20Cennau
Summary: After becoming a Solid, Odo finds that too many recyclings have made Chief O'Brien's borrowed clothes wear thin. After Kira all but forces him into Garak's tailor shop for new clothes, Odo finds that the hard shell he's built for himself his hard pressed to stay in place when faced with the gentlest of touches.





	A Warm Turquoise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DHW](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHW/gifts).

> I hope you like this, DHW! Touch-starvation and touch-repulsion are my fave tropes, and this was such a ball to write!

It was mid-morning when Odo had found himself accosted and assaulted on his rounds. His assailant may not have seen it as ‘assault’ - in fact, Major Kira defined it as ‘helping a friend out’. Odo classed the broad smile, the hands on his shoulders and the forcible marching towards Garak’s clothiers as ‘assault’, but that was hard to press charges against that when it was your friend and station officer doing the assaulting. Instead, Odo grumbled and complained the entire way there, making it Very Clear that he was Not Impressed.

“It’s just  _ clothes,  _ Odo,” Kira had finally sighed, a few metres away from the tailor shop. “Look, you’re solid now. You can’t go wearing Chief O’Brien’s clothes until you turn back.”

“I  _ can _ ,” Odo grumbled, irritably batting Kira’s hands away. “I have a recycler in my room, I can just have them washed every time I need them.”

“That recycler is making your clothes threadbare - look at that elbow!” Kira poked at the threadbare patch on the elbow, and Odo instinctively moved away. “That uniform is three recyclings away from disintegrating. No, you need clothes.”

Odo harrumphed, but had nothing to retort. He knew himself that he needed new clothes, but the thought of  _ shopping  _ was just… exhausting. It was far easier to pretend that his borrowed uniform was not falling apart, and he could keep wearing it for the rest of forever. But Kira was right, and he was here now, and he might as well get the whole thing over with so he can go back to stalking the Promenade in relative peace. Seeing his defeat, Kira’s smile softened, and she gently gestured towards Garak’s Clothiers.

“I’ve made you an appointment with Garak,” she said. “I don’t trust him more than I can throw him, but if you’re going to be like this for a while then replicated clothes won’t do.”

She gave him a slight push, and Odo found himself propelled into the dimly lit store, where clothes crowded in from all sides like an untamed forest. Garak was sat at his counter, blue eyes focused on a small piece of embroidery that he was carefully running through his grey scaled hands, but as Odo came further into the store, he looked up and smiled in greeting.

“Constable!” he said, setting the embroidery aside. “It’s good to see you. I had grown worried that you wouldn’t turn up.”

“Major Kira only deigned to tell me of the appointment a few moments ago.” Odo replied, crossing his arms. Garak nodded, smiling a little.

“I had suspected she might do that. You aversion to anything material is… rather legendary.” Garak placed a hand on his back. “Shall we get started?” 

His hand was warm against his back. Odo wasn’t certain why it was so distracting, but it  _ was.  _ It was like all of his senses were suddenly getting dimmer, focusing on that one hand. Perhaps it was the new body? Odo had never wanted to touch people as a Changeling, and when he had it had not felt like… this.  _ _ Maybe it was because touches in this body had been few and far between - a clap on the back from Chief O’Brien, a light touch from Kira, even Doctor Bashir’s medical examination had been mostly a tricorder scan. The hand slid a little lower to the small of his back, and Odo felt a twinge of a desire to press back into it, press back into the warmth-

...and what was his argument again?

Right. He didn’t want new clothes. And he didn't want to be touched.  


“Garak…” he ground out, trying vainly to sound gruff. “You can find someone else to foist your wares on. I don’t want to buy anything.”

“Oh, you won’t be  _ buying  _ anything.” Garak chirped in response, propelling him towards the changing rooms. “Major Kira has stated she will cover your bill. Something about ‘seeing you in something other than beige’...”

Odo huffed, feeling like he was being cornered and seeing no easy way out. “I  _ like  _ beige.”

“I’m certain you do, and I would be… willing to create something beige. But perhaps we can try a few different colours - a midnight blue, or a teal…”

And before Odo could say another word to the contrary, he found himself bustled into the small fitting room, and being cajoled into stepping onto the little platform in the centre. Seeing there absolutely was no escape now, Odo huffed his disapproval, trying to hide his discomfort behind gruff disinterest. Garak did not respond to this, only smiled brightly as he pottered around. 

“Get undressed, constable, down to your underclothes.” he said, as he went to head out of the curtained fitting room. “I’ll just fetch my measuring tape - with what has happened to your body, I wouldn’t be certain the laser measuring tape will be accurate.”

He left, and Odo obediently stripped down to his underclothes - or rather, O’Brien’s borrowed underclothes that he wore. They were looking rather shabby and threadbare from repeated recyclings now, and Odo shifted uncomfortably, feeling particularly vulnerable standing near-naked in the dressing parlour of a man who used to exploit vulnerability for the Obsidian Order. Odo knew better, knew that Garak of course,  _ wasn’t  _ a member, not anymore, but still he felt his hackles rise as Garak reentered the room.

“Don’t look like that, Constable.” Garak said, taking in his glowering expression. “I’m not going to  _ eat  _ you. Now, arms up - let me measure you out…”

Odo had never needed to employ Garak’s services before - being an amorphous being came with the bonus of not needing to understand fashion - but he was certain that the touches were not meant to be like this. To start, it had been finger touches, feather brushes as Garak measured his arms, but even those distracted him, dizzying in how much Odo’s body wanted it. Odo knew he had a reputation for being touchphobic, but this yearning for touch was ridiculous. This couldn’t be how humans or Bajoran’s reacted to touch - well, he knew Doctor Bashir couldn’t stand to touch velvet, and Jake Sisko loved the touch of baseball leather, but no-one else reacted like _this._ He never wanted people to touch him, and yet in this new, unfamiliar body, the slightest of touches made him crave more and hate it more in individual measure.

The featherlight touches turned to firm presses, as Garak’s hands slid down his sides, feeling out the contours of Odo’s body underneath O’Brien’s baggy underclothes, and the touch was almost  _ electrifying _ . Odo was certain if he could look down at the hands there would be sparks flying from the contact. But he couldn’t move, frozen in place, seeing his own stricken expression in the mirror, hyperfocusing on all Garak’s details - the age-spotted scales at the corners of his eyes, the dark black claws around the measuring tape, the shallow crevices of Cardassian wrinkles around his mouth, the streaks of gunmetal grey in his hair. It was all he could do to minimize the trembling as Garak did his job, moving around, measuring, touching him here and there to move him, feeling out how things would sit on him. His body almost ached for the touch, and yet it was too much, too  _ much,  _ and Odo’s skin burnt with the contact. 

This was hot torture. There was no other word for it - this was hot torture and Odo was going to fry alive right there and then. The touches against his bare skin as he stood there in O’Brien’s borrowed y-fronts, trying not to flinch or cry out as Garak once again approached with his tape measure, were  _ agonising,  _ and Odo could not decide if he liked the idea of being touched or hated the reality of the pain. Garak seemed not to notice his discomfort, instead continuing to measure and inspect - a palm on his waist as he scrutinized the Founder’s attempt at ribs, a hand on his hips as the tape looped around it, fingers on his inner thigh as he measured his legs. After what felt like an age, where Odo was certain he was going to fly apart from all the gentle touches, Garak straightened up, his expression a mask of professionalism.

“There,” Garak murmured, and his voice was as low and as gravelly as Odo had ever heard it. “You’re done. Let me fetch you some fabrics to look at, and you can go.”

And with that, Garak ducked out of the tiny changing room, leaving Odo shivering on the small pedestal.

BREAK

After the encounter in Garak’s shop, Odo proceeded on with his life trying valiantly to forget anything and everything that happened there. It was surprisingly hard to do so - while in his waking moments he could bury himself in whatever new scheme Quark had cooked up, in his downtime he couldn’t help but think of clever fingers and warm, scaled palms. Major Kira had taken an interest in seeing him back in uniform, and now made certain to ask him every couple of days when Garak would be finished with his clothes. The answer to that was forever “when he has time”, but that didn’t seem to dissuade her, nor did it distract him from his thoughts. In actual fact, Odo had no idea if Garak was finished with his clothes or not, only that he very much did not want to go back to him and his electric touch.

Much to Odo’s dismay, that choice was taken right out of his hands, when one night Garak simply  _ walked  _ into his quarters.

“Gah- _ rak.”  _ Odo ground out in his most authorative tone. “How did you get in? That door was locked.”

“Oh, some of the things I learn in this job…” Garak proceeded to potter around his room with exaggerated curiosity. “Hemming trousers, decoding, unlocking doors, ruching-”

“ _ Garak. _ ”

Garak turned and held one hand up in a placating gesture. “In this instance, Major Kira granted me access. She seemed quite concerned you would be living in Chief O’Brien’s clothes for several months.”

Odo harrumphed, and turned away. “Chief O’Brien’s clothes are perfectly serviceable. He said I could keep them.”

“They don’t have to be the  _ only  _ things you own.”

“I  _ like  _ them.”

“You can like other things!”

“I don’t care, I like  _ these  _ things.”

“Honestly-” Odo did not have to turn around to know Garak was rolling his eyes. “Constable, your friend Major Kira has very kindly commissioned  _ clothes  _ for you.”

“And I do very much appreciate that-”

“But you’ve made making the things as  _ laborious as possible _ . I’ve not had to chase a client into their personal quarters for fittings for many months!”

“I’ve no time for fittings.”

“It’s like you’ve been  _ avoiding _ me.”

“I  _ have. _ ”

Garak blinked, before allowing a wry little smile to grace his lips. “Well, no-one can fault you for your honesty.”

Odo harrumphed again, and pointedly did not look at Garak. He heard a sigh, and then Garak approached him, and lay one hand on his upper back. Odo stiffened, part of his mind very much wanting the touch, and the other part very much wanting to reject it.

“How long has it been since you have been touched, Constable?”

Without conscious thought, Odo’s lip twisted into a grimace. “Garak-”

“I ask as your friend, Odo. I ask as your  _ tailor _ .” Garak smiled a little. “I recognise touch aversion when I see it. Doctor Bashir runs a mile when I bring out the velvet. You stand like a terrified Cardassian vole when anyone approaches you with affection.”

Odo snorted. “Are you trying to be affectionate with  _ me? _ ”

Garak paused, the hand on Odo’s back beginning to rub very gentle circles between Odo’s shoulder blades. “I’d like to make this as… comfortable for you as possible. We’ve shared breakfast every day for four months now - I’d like to think I have some concern for your well being.”

“I don’t trust you further than I can throw you.”

“If you don’t trust your tailor, who can you trust?”

_ I’ll trust you if you keep touching me,  _ his mind begged. Out loud, he said: “I don’t like being touched.”

“But you need it. Just like everyone else, you  _ crave  _ it.” Garak’s hand drifted lower to rest on the small of his back. “I have no intention of hurting you, Constable. But just let me give you what you need, just for tonight. What have you got to lose?”

And feeling his resolve crumbling slowly like sand through his fingers, Odo took a deep breath and nodded. 

Garak’s initial touches were light, unhurried - Garak encouraged him to strip once more, before easing him into his new uniform, soft to the touch and blessedly beige, although the accents were a shade off turquoise. Fingers at the cuffs, tugging, palms on his back, smoothing, Odo let himself slide into the touches, his mind almost purring at the soothing of his touch-starved skin. His quarters felt warm, but Garak’s touches were warmer still, measured and exact, ensuring the new uniform fitted and would not wear out easily. Garak’s hands graced down one arm, feeling out the fit, and Odo’s skin almost buzzed with the contact, right up until he touched the skin of his wrist, and suddenly it was too much, too  _ much- _

“Ah,” Garak said, as if he’d found an errant pin in the hemline. “Direct skin contact seems to set you off. One moment.”

There was a rustling of fabric, and then Garak’s hands were on him again, but they felt… different. Odo looked across at Garak, and realised he’d donned a pair of soft gloves, smooth and cool against his skin, and somehow the barrier made the whole experience… bearable. Enjoyable, even. Garak moved around him in a well-trained dance, hands touching and pressing, and Odo was helpless but to follow, his mind latching and craving the feel of a hand against his body. Had he been in his right mind, Odo perhaps would’ve refused the touch and retreated to the shadows of his bedroom and hid, but his touch-starved mind kept him rooted to the spot, waiting for the tailor’s touch, wanting it perhaps more than he had wanted anything in his life.

It wasn’t long before Garak was done with his work, but instead of packing up and leaving like the last time, he paused. Gently, almost reverently, he traced one finger over Odo’s lower lip, and Odo shuddered.

“Shall we take this somewhere a little more private, Constable?” Garak asked lowly, and Odo was helpless to do anything other than comply.

  
  



End file.
